I was able to find the accounting software easily enough, but it was password protected. I tried numerous name and number combinations until I finally hit on “Danny829”—I knew his birthday was coming up at the end of August—and found myself looking at an unfamiliar accounting setup. I wandered around in the system, clicking on different tabs, trying to locate the most current receivables statement, and feeling increasingly frustrated. I was relieved to look up and see Mara and Danny coming down the path to the office. But that feeling didn’t last long.
“What’s going on?” Mara cried when she saw me at her desk. “What the hell are you doing?”
“I was just trying to look at the accounts,” I told her. I could tell she was incensed, but I was pretty angry, too. I got up from the desk. “Don’t yell at me like that. This is my office.”
“I thought I could count on a little privacy around here,” Mara said, softening her tone. I sensed she was making a concerted effort to get her feelings under control. She turned back to her son and said, “It’s okay, sweetie. Why don’t you run out to the garden and see if you can find some more of those caterpillars? You know where to find their special house, right?”
Danny looked from Mara to me. It must have been a pretty unsettling day for him.
“I hear they sometimes turn into butterflies,” I told him.
“Yes,” he said, nodding. That seemed to reassure him, and he left, the door slamming behind him. Mara and I took a moment to watch him make his way across the lawn to the old greenhouse and then reemerge a moment later carrying a big plastic jug.
“Sorry,” Mara said, walking past me to her desk and sinking into the chair. She ran her hands through her hair. “Listen—I’m just really stressed about what happened.”
“I can tell,” I said. “Are you okay? You look exhausted.”
“I am,” she said. “I’m living with a three-year-old. I’ve been putting in ten-hour workdays. And now I’m scared shitless my job’s going to go up in smoke.”
“Don’t worry,” I told her. “I know we’ll be able to work this out. I think Eleanor’s right: Mackenzie would never leave us in the lurch. He may be tough, but I think he’s loyal. I think he takes care of his own.”
“You think?” she said sarcastically. “The truth is you didn’t really know a damned thing about him when you took this job on.”
“Please, there’s no point in arguing,” I told her. “We really need to work together right now. For starters, could you please print out the latest statements for me? Then maybe we can sit down and try to figure out how we’re going to manage.”
It was worse than I’d thought. Convinced that Mackenzie’s second and final payment was covering me, I’d spent freely with several firms I’d never worked with before and whose terms were more rigid than those of my regular suppliers. Invoices from a nursery in Oregon, a high-end garden furniture company in North Carolina, and a rose grower in Ontario were all overdue. Bills were also starting to come in from local vendors. These were the very garden centers and nurseries I needed to be on good terms with if I hoped to stay in business. And I didn’t have the money to pay any of them.
“Maybe we could try to speed up our receivables?” I asked Mara, running my eye over the list of our regular customers. There were a few who occasionally required past-due notices, but in general our clients kept pretty current.
“How? By billing ahead?” Mara asked. “I don’t see how we can do that without setting off alarms.”
“You’re right,” I said. “I was just thinking out loud. The last thing we want is for word to get out that we’re in trouble.”
“That might already be happening,” Mara said. “Damon kind of cornered me this morning. He asked me if he could get paid in cash for the waterfall railing.”
“Did he say why?”
“No—and I didn’t ask. I didn’t commit, of course. I told him I’d have to talk to you about it first.”
“Thanks. But you’re right: he knows what happened. Nate told him about the bounced check. I guess there’s no way we’re going to be able to contain this thing. We need to get cash flowing again—fast.”
“Don’t worry about paying me for now,” Mara said.
“That’s ridiculous. Of course I’m going to—”
“No, you’ve been really generous with all the overtime this summer. Danny and I are good for now.”
“That’s kind of you, Mara, but I’ll find a way to pay you.”
“I’m not being kind, just realistic. We’ve got to pay the crew first. We lose them, and we’re really sunk.”
Mara and Danny left about an hour later. We hadn’t solved anything, but at least I now understood the extent of the problem. And it was daunting. Green Acres had been wrung dry in terms of money—and at the worst possible moment. Mackenzie had to come through, or I was going to have to start liquidating my retirement fund. Or consider mortgaging the house. Which would not only break my heart but put at risk a promise I’d made to my father years ago.
“You know, your great-grandfather built this place,” he’d told me the summer before he died. That was the year my dad started repeating himself and living more and more in the past. I’d heard the story many times before about how dapper Walter Childs, a New York City lawyer, broke a leg during a fishing trip in the summer of 1901, and was laid up in the rural backwater of Woodhaven for a few weeks. He stayed in a boardinghouse run by my soon-to-be great-grandmother’s family and quickly fell in love with the young woman who helped take care of him. After they married that Christmas, Walter took her back to the city to live, but soon discovered that his new wife yearned for the wooded hills of her childhood. So Walter built her the eyebrow Colonial farmhouse not far from the Heron River site of his accident. The family spent every summer there for the rest of their lives. Just as his eldest son—my grandfather—and his family did after him.
“One of my first memories was selling raspberries out there by the roadside,” my father told me—again, hardly for the first time. “Summer of ’38. Nobody had any money. My father had lost his job in the crash and we’d moved up here from the city. The bank was trying to foreclose on the house, but my mother and father were determined to keep that from happening. There was my mother, who’d been born wealthy, with maids and chauffeurs in New York City, putting up jam! My father grew vegetables. And all of us kids did our bit, helping out in the garden and running that fruit stand.”
“I know, Dad,” I told him, only half listening.
“No, you don’t!” he said, his voice rising. “You have no idea what it was like! You’ll probably never know what it feels like to be in danger of losing everything you have! But if you do, Alice, you’ve got to promise me something.”
The doctor had told us that it wasn’t good for my father to become upset. And I’d been spending a lot of time that summer trying to deal with these sudden outbursts.
“Of course, Daddy, I’ll do whatever you say,” I told him.
“No, I mean it, Alice,” he said, his voice suddenly forceful and clear. He looked me in the eye. “I’m going to leave this place to you when I die because you’re my only child, but it really belongs to our family. To those who came before—and those who’ll be coming after. Promise me you’ll never let it go, okay?”
I was married then. To a wealthy, successful man. We owned a big Cape Cod in Westchester and a vacation condo on Sanibel Island in Florida. The idea of needing to sell the old family farmhouse in the Berkshires seemed far-fetched, to say the least.
“Yes, of course,” I told him without a second thought. “I promise.”
It was almost dark when I decided to call it quits. I’d been over the statements so many times the numbers were starting to run together. I was just shutting down Mara’s computer when I heard a knock on the screen door.
“Alice?”
“Tom!” I sa
id, startled. He’d never been out to my house before, as far as I knew, and the barn was tucked back in the woods behind it. Not the easiest place to find.
“I didn’t mean to frighten you,” he said. “I was going to call you, but I thought it would be better if I came over.”
“What—?” I began, but then I knew. I heard it in his voice. “Oh, no, please . . .”
“I’m sorry,” he said, letting himself in. I remained behind the desk, unable to get up, searching his face for some sign that I was wrong. But his gaze was solemn. “I’ve been at the hospital all afternoon with Chloe and Lachlan. No one would talk to us for the longest time. I kept trying to get information from the nurses or from anyone in authority, but it was like I was asking for state secrets. A doctor finally came out and talked to us. I’m sorry, Alice, but he didn’t make it.”
“Oh, God,” I said, trying to take in the news. Mackenzie—always so much larger than life—gone. It was inconceivable. “But—what happened? Was it his heart?”
“I think so,” he said. “A massive heart attack, probably. They’ll be doing an autopsy. Chloe told me that his cholesterol and blood pressure had been out of control for years. And that he didn’t take care of himself. Apparently he had some issues with mainstream medicine.”
“I know,” I said, taking a deep breath, trying to calm myself down. I felt panicky, my heart racing. I’d gambled everything on Mackenzie—without even realizing it. Everything I’d worked so hard for since Richard had disappeared. All those hours, weeks, years making myself over, learning a new trade, building the business. All to be undermined by another charismatic man! But it wasn’t love that had blinded me this time—it was pride. In my talent. In Mackenzie’s approval. In the glittering promise of the most beautiful garden in the Berkshires. What a fool I’d been!
“Are you okay?” Tom asked. “I’m really sorry—I know how much you admired him.”
And I had. I’d been drawn to his magnetic self-assurance. To that booming laugh. His keen mind. And, of course, the exuberant ambition he put into our shared endeavor. I’d never really seen the ruthless side of Mackenzie that Tom knew. Nor had I ever sensed that he was the kind of man who, as Chloe said, “promises the world to everyone he meets.” I’d believed in him. I’d convinced myself that our relationship was special. And that he regarded me as someone exceptional. Like him.
“Yes, I’m okay,” I said, getting up from the desk. But once I was on my feet, I felt sick to my stomach and dizzy. I held on to the back of the chair as the realization of what had happened—and all that I’d lost—swept over me again. I bowed my head. I shut my eyes. My head was spinning. Somewhere, I heard Tom call my name. Then I felt his strong arms around me, holding me upright.
“Alice,” he said, pulling me close. I found myself resisting at first, then giving in to his embrace. Everything in my world had gone wrong. And at the same time, this—Tom’s body against mine—felt so right.
15
Gwen called me first thing the next morning. I was still in bed, though I’d been awake since before dawn. Thinking. Worrying. Cycling through the events of the day before. Anxiety weighed on my heart. Even the memory of Tom’s arms around me the night before couldn’t dislodge it.
“Did you hear?” Gwen asked in a small, frightened voice.
“Yes, I did,” I said. “It’s awful, isn’t it? How are you holding up?” I’d been so overwhelmed by my own concerns, I hadn’t given any thought to what Gwen might be going through.
“Not so well,” she said. “Can I come over?”
“Sure,” I said, sitting up in bed. “I’ll make us some breakfast.”
I got dressed and went downstairs to the kitchen. Some people—like Gwen—need to eat when they’re upset; others—like me—lose their appetite. But I’ve always found that the act of cooking steadies my nerves. The world just seems less formidable when I have a spatula in my hand. By the time Gwen arrived, the smell of bacon filled the downstairs and I had a stack of pancakes warming in the oven.
“Hey, there,” she said, walking right over to me and giving me a big hug. “Oh, God, Alice, this is so awful!”
“I know,” I said, hugging her back. Then I started to set things out on the wide-planked kitchen table. I had the French windows open to the backyard, and a gentle breeze ruffled the paper napkins. In an attempt to add a little cheer to the sad morning, I’d cut some fresh roses and lady’s mantle and arranged them in a silver urn in the middle of the table.
“When did you find out?” I asked her as I sliced bananas and strawberries into a cut-glass bowl.
“I had to pry it out of that damned housekeeper,” Gwen said, pouring herself a cup of coffee. She leaned against the counter and watched me as she talked. “I kept calling the house yesterday when I heard what had happened. God, she’s so possessive! And kind of scary, like Mrs. Danvers in Rebecca. But who else could I call? The hospital wouldn’t talk to me because I’m not family. It was awful. Being so worried and then having that woman treat me like such crap! When I called for about the tenth time, early in the evening, she was blubbering—which is how I learned about it. I’ve been out of my mind ever since.”
“Okay,” I said. “Sit down and have some breakfast. And then I really need to hear what’s been going on with you and Mackenzie. Am I right in thinking that you two were involved—and not just professionally?”
“What a sweet euphemism, Alice,” Gwen said as she took a seat across from me and started to pile food onto her plate. “Not just professionally! But, yes, of course, you’re right. Though I know you warned me against it. Even before I met Graham you told me I should watch my step. But what was I supposed to do? I mean, from the very beginning we had this amazing connection!”
“I thought so,” I said, watching her dig into the pancakes I’d served her. “And I’m not surprised, really. I think I knew when I introduced you two that something like that might happen. Oh, Gwen! What a damned shame. I’m so sorry he’s gone! For everyone’s sake—but especially yours. You must be heartbroken.”
She nodded her head as she continued to eat. She might be devastated, but it wasn’t affecting her appetite.
“That’s better,” she said as she stirred sugar into her coffee. “I’ve been wanting to talk to you about Graham and me, but I just didn’t feel right about it. It still seemed so new—and so special. I wasn’t ready to share it yet. I don’t think I’ve ever really felt this way before. Protective, I mean. About the two of us.”
“I understand,” I told her. But though things might very well have been different between her and Mackenzie, the truth was that Gwen had always kept her love affairs to herself. I’d grown accustomed to her disappearing from my life for weeks, sometimes even a month or two at a time, when caught up in one of these grand passions. And then coming back and—often hilariously—dissecting her ex-lover’s character and foibles with me once the relationship began to unravel. As they all inevitably did.
“Graham was such a wonderful man . . . ,” she said. “God, what passion—and generosity!”
“Yes, I know,” I said, but I found myself not really wanting to hear any of the intimate details regarding their relationship.
“So you think this might have been the real thing?” I asked her instead.
“I’m having a hard time thinking about it in the past,” she said, gazing out the French windows into the sunlit morning. “He still feels so present! You know, I feel like he really cared about me for who I am. There was definitely something going on between us. But now I guess I’ll never know if it would have lasted. Goddamn it!” she said, shaking her head. Her eyes filled with tears.
“Oh, Gwen,” I said, reaching across the table for her hand. My friend wasn’t a weeper. In fact, I couldn’t recall the last time I’d seen her cry.
“I’m a real mess, Alice,” she said, the tears rolling down her cheeks.
> “Of course you are! Go ahead and cry. Who gives a damn what you look like? You should be letting your feelings out. It’s horrible that this has happened to you! It’s so unfair.”
“I mean, I’m in a real mess,” Gwen said. “I don’t know what to do.”
“What do you mean?”
“Gr-a-ham,” she said, stuttering a little as she tried to pull herself together. “Graham understood how much Bridgewater House meant to me. . . .”
“I’m sure he did,” I said. Gwen wiped her eyes and blew her nose on a paper napkin. She took a breath and continued on in a steadier tone.
“And he loved the place, too, especially the property. He saw how significant it was historically—and the amazing potential it had if it was fixed up properly. In fact, it was his idea to turn the stables into a museum and learning center.”
“That’s great,” I said, studying my friend as she looked down at the napkin that she’d wadded up in her lap. She seemed lost in her thoughts—and they clearly weren’t happy ones. “So? Was he going to contribute to the capital campaign?”
“No,” she said, looking up and meeting my gaze. “He promised to underwrite the whole thing.”
“What? But isn’t that almost—”
“A million dollars,” she said, nodding. The tears began to flow again. “When we first got together, he was only interested in making a generous gift. But the more I told him about my ideas for Bridgewater House, the more excited he got about it, too. He began to talk to me about how it could be turned into this museum and research center for local history—one that would bring scholars in from all over the country. Then he began to envision the place becoming a kind of cultural gathering place for the town, too. A beautiful historic setting for holding parties and lectures and concerts. One night when he came over to the house, I took him out to the old stables and he just fell in love with the building! You know how it has those great big old sliding doors and soaring ceilings. This is it! he told me. This is going to be the Bridgewater House Museum and Research Center. And he made the pledge right on the spot. Though he insisted it be anonymous.”
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